John Lescroart - Son of Holmes
“Fairly well.”
“All right. Renee!” he yelled suddenly. “The onions are burning.”
His wife came back into the room, apologetic. It was the first time I’d seen her without tears in her eyes. She was attractive in a tough sort of way—the kind of woman I’d expect Henri to be with—short, dark, buxom, subservient. She stood silently by the stove, stirring with a practiced rhythm.
“It might do you good to go down to the store,” I suggested. “Take your mind off things.”
I hadn’t touched my drink. I offered it to him. He drank it off in a gulp.
“Let’s go,” he said.
On the staircase, we stopped again.
“If it’s any consolation,” I said, “no one came by to see either Tania or myself last night. Maybe you’ll have no more trouble with him.”
That seemed to make him nervous all over again. “He said he’d be back here this morning.”
“Well, morning’s nearly gone,” I said. “What time did you run into him last night?”
“Early. Seven or half past.”
“What time did you get back with your wife?”
“A few hours after that,” he said. “I walked around for a while, just thinking.”
We entered the shop and he called out immediately to his son. “Henri, get those crates in line! And hang that new garlic!” He turned quickly to me. “Good-bye, Jules, and thank you. I’ll let you know about next week.” Then another customer entered, and Henri brushed his hands against his apron and greeted him, as though he didn’t have a worry in the world.
Outside, it was bright and warm. Henri lived off the main route, so I had to walk a while to get to a thoroughfare where I could catch a hansom back to my house. I’d found his place stuffy with the smell of grease and onions, and the walking made me decide to stop for a beer. A boy went by with some late editions of the newspaper, and waiting for my beer to arrive, I idly read the news from the front. I leaned back and relaxed, reminding myself that Henri’s eldest son shared his name, and wondering if Henri would be persuaded to come next Wednesday. But where, it seemed, was a problem. Maybe Lupa would have a suggestion.
I turned the pages of the journal, coming eventually to local news. Then I froze, my beer halfway to my mouth. I put the beer down and looked at the small heading at the bottom of the page. The article read:
INVESTIGATOR KILLED
Police this morning discovered the body of special investigator J. Chatelet, 46, near the outskirts of Valence. The body lay just off the road, partially concealed in a clump of bushes. Chatelet had been with the police for ten years, the past five as an undercover (plainclothes) investigator. He appeared to have been strangled last night after having been attacked from behind. The body was still armed. He had been investigating the recent murder of Marcel Routier, a Valence salesman. He is survived by his wife, Paulette, and their three children.
I put down the paper and stared across the street, which shimmered in the heat. Folding the newspaper carefully, I put it under my arm, left some coins on the table and, standing up, flagged a carriage.
9
“Of course I’ve read it,” Lupa said.“I saw it only a few minutes after you left. Naturally it’s interesting that he’d just been to see Pulis, but it proves nothing.”
I’d gone back to Lupa’s after I’d collected my thoughts. He was not at his table on the street, so I passed down under Charles’s gaze to the kitchen and on back. He was not in his apartments either, so I walked into the office, took a candle, and entered the tunnel. At the other end, the lights were on and especially brilliant after the darkness.
Lupa was leaning over, staring intently at some blooming flowers, seemingly lost to any intrigue that might be encircling him. We greeted each other, and then he said something about the peace of working with flora. I had no reply. Rather, I asked him if he’d read about Chatelet’s death.
“One thing it proves is that Tania is out of it,” I said.
He stopped fooling with the plants and straightened up, sighing. “My dear Jules, I realize how much of a burden this must be for you to bear, but it proves nothing of the sort. Didn’t you tell me you got home long after dark last night?”
“Yes.”
“It became dark some time after seven last night. The sun set at six fifty-two. The ride from St. Etienne takes over an hour, and it was dark when you left, meaning that it must have been after eight when you got to Madame Chessal’s home. Chatelet left Pulis at around seven. Unfortunately, that left ample time for Madame Chessal to go do nearly any mischief she had to. I admit it isn’t the most likely explanation, but it is possible.”
“But the man was strangled.”
“Yes, that’s the official explanation, pending an autopsy. Even so, one shouldn’t underestimate the strength of women. It’s true that they often appear helpless and weak, but that’s often our perception either because that’s what we expect to see, or because that’s what they allow us to see. I read recently where a mother lifted a carriage that had driven over the legs of her son, a carriage I’m sure neither you nor I could have lifted. Nor at any other time might she have been able to lift it, for that matter. Stress does strange things to people, as it’s doing now to you. Sit down, would you?”
I complied.
“You’re overwrought. Collect yourself or you’ll be worthless to both of us. Now, look around you. Breathe deeply. There is always beauty and it is always a comfort.”
He was right. In a few moments, I felt calm and competent to think again. In the meantime, he didn’t bother me but kept busy with the plants. Finally, he walked back to me.
“Well,” he asked, “is it Pulis?”
I told him what I thought—that I wasn’t sure, that my biggest problem was motive. Henri couldn’t very well have been a spy for several years, since he’d been here in Valence with his growing family and business. Lupa seemed to agree, though he said nothing. When I finished reporting, he suggested I walk through the plant room with him before returning through the tunnel.
“You know that cyanide is also used to smelt gold or silver from ore. It’s such a convenient poison because it’s so easily attainable legally. Any photographer would have it, as would any geologist.” He shrugged. “No, come to think of it, I don’t believe I’ll go in to see Anna today. I’ll let her stew a bit over this morning’s display. Come, there’s work to do.”
We went together back to the tunnel. I noticed him reach up just inside the door of the plant room and throw a switch.
“We can go back through now. I’ve turned off the alarm.” I hadn’t noticed that switch in my earlier passages—another indication of my decreasing powers.
Back in his office, he sat behind his desk after getting out three bottles of beer, two for himself and one for me.
After a great gulp of beer, he spoke. “I’ve decided it might be wise to have everyone meet here next Wednesday. Naturally, they’ll be brooding about recent events, and they may resent me, but I think we can come up with something to make this place acceptable. What do you say?”
“I’m not sure,” I answered truthfully. “Some of them may not come.”
“If we can think of some way to get them all here, what would you say?”
“I wouldn’t have any objections, I suppose. Why here, though?”
“Staging. If I can get them all in one place and question them, I think we may get somewhere. It may be easier to heighten the atmosphere of distrust here than elsewhere, and animosity is a much better catalyst than cooperation.”
I drank my beer. “All right. I’ll think about a way to arrange it.”
“One other thing,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“I’d be curious to see a photograph of Madame Chessal’s family. Could you get your hands on one?”
“Are you serious?”
“Perfectly.”
“But why?”
“Because, Jules, I would like to lay to rest, once and for all, my suspicion of her, and I have an idea.”
“You have an idea . . .” I said skeptically.
“Please,” he said, “if it’s a difficult request, I retract it.” He seemed genuinely concerned for me. “I don’t want to upset you.”
“That’s all right,” I said. “I’m being peevish. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you,” he said simply. “It might be important.”
That night I was alone at my house. Saturday was Fritz’s night off, and Tania had left, I imagine, sometime during the day. I was somewhat surprised by Fritz’s absence—normally he stayed at the house even on Saturdays—but of course he was perfectly free to go out. Perhaps he’d met a girl while shopping, though he was very shy with women and seemed not to like them particularly. It had taken him some months to be natural with Tania, who was the mildest of creatures.
Beset with a certain heaviness, I wandered about the large and empty house. I felt I should know more, that enough had happened to form some conclusions, but the problem was that—much as I hated to admit it—the actions of everyone involved invited suspicion. I lit a cigarette and sat on the darkened stairs. The house itself had an eeriness clinging to it. Something was making me nervous, possibly a sagging belief in my own competence. I felt I should file a report to Paris, but somehow, even with Marcel’s death, there seemed nothing to report. It all seemed so parochial now, a personal matter having nothing to do with the war or with France. I felt out of touch with any national effort, and trapped in a tightening circle of local intrigue.
After a small supper of reheated stuffed bell peppers, endive salad, and several glasses of beaujolais, I tried to read, but found I couldn’t shake this feeling of unease. I checked the doors to see that they were locked and then, turning off all the lights save one, went upstairs to my room for the first time since I’d left it that morning.
I had nearly finished undressing before I noticed something on my desk. I crossed over to it, sat down, lit another cigarette. It was a familiar bit of folded paper, probably left for Fritz earlier in the day with instructions to deliver it to me. Opening it, I saw several columns listing farm produce with asking prices in various locations. Wearily, I pulled the tattered code book from where I had it taped under my desk. Smoke from my cigarette burned in my eyes, and I stubbed out the butt on the desk top, impatiently brushing the ashes to the floor. In a few minutes I had the message entirely decoded.
Paris had taken the initiative. They were transferring me to Bordeaux, again for what I interpreted to be desk work, since there was no active theater there. I went downstairs and poured myself a cognac. I’d been moved many times in my career, but I’d never been dismissed from a case before it had been solved. Apparently Paris had decided that I was useless here, or that my usefulness in general was at an end. I paced.
Finally I sat down and pulled my pad in front of me, beginning the even more complicated process of composing a detailed response in code. I would not go to Bordeaux, even if it meant resigning. With that thought, I sat bolt upright and crossed out what I had begun to write. Sometimes a course of action seems impossible until it is defined; once defined, it becomes inevitable. I leaned back in my chair and heaved a huge sigh of relief.
The carefully worded response was completed just as I heard the lock turn in the front door. I came to the head of the stairs and saw Fritz enter. He took off his coat and hung it neatly on a peg in the hall. I called out his name.
He looked up. “Sir?”
“Pleasant evening?”
“Yes.”
“Would you care for a cognac?”
“I believe I would, thank you.”
I came down and we went into the sitting room. He naturally refilled my glass, then poured his own drink. I handed him the note I’d written and asked him to mail it for me the next day.
“Certainly.” He paused, sipping at his drink. “Madame Chessal took me to dinner this evening. Perhaps it’s none of my affair, sir, but she seemed quite worried about you. She said to remind you that you were picnicking tomorrow. I’ve already planned a lunch,” he added.
“Yes. I remember. What did she say?”
“Only that she was afraid you were in some special danger. I assume relating to Monsieur Routier’s death. I confess that I’ve been concerned about your appetite recently. Did you read that one of the men investigating his death was killed last night?”
“Yes.”
“Well, madame seems to think there is a kind of plot, and that you’re somehow deeply involved.”
I shook my head slowly. “Well, you know women, Fritz. They worry about little things. I’m not sure that Marcel’s death was not suicide, and that investigator may simply have been robbed. I assure you I’m in no plot. Marcel’s death did upset me, and business has been weighing me down—unnecessarily, I think—for several weeks. In fact, that note you are holding is a letter of resignation. I’ve decided to stay here in Valence and live out my days in what peace I can hold on to. God knows I don’t need the money, and I do need a rest.”
He nodded. “I think that’s a good idea, sir.”
“Well, fine,” I said. “I think I’ll be going to bed now. Would you again wake me early?” I raised my glass. “To victory, France, and peace.”
We drank the toast and retired.
10
The next morning, I picked up Tania at nine o’clock, and we took her carriage into town for Mass. It was a grand morning, and when I told Tania of my plans to stay in Valence, she threw her arms around me and laughed like a schoolgirl.
“Jules, that’s wonderful!”
We sat happily through the service, and I resolved to forget my business for at least a day. Though I had resigned, I had no intention of giving up the investigation of Marcel’s death. It was a matter both of pride and survival, for I entertained no doubts that all of us were indeed in some special danger.
I wondered whether Paris would respect my reply or whether they would be difficult. I had worked for them for over thirty years and undeniably knew many secrets, codes, and strategies. The situation might become very sticky. They could be most persuasive if they had to be. I put the thought out of my mind. I would have to deal with that later. For the time being, Lupa might not have been convinced of Tania’s innocence, but I was. It was a good feeling.
We returned to my home and picked up the basket lunch Fritz had prepared: a cold roast chicken, hard-boiled eggs, several bottles of beer, and some dried fruits. He’d even managed to find a bit of brick chocolate for dessert.
We left the house and followed the brook across the road and down into the meadow beyond, where a few field horses grazed peacefully. I carried the small folding table and chairs, and Tania the basket. About two kilometers downstream, the brook widens into a placid pond, dotted here and there with fowl and surrounded by a rather dense woods. We picked our way into one of the several clearings and set up the table, which Tania covered with the plain white cloth Fritz had given us. Then she took off her bonnet and shoes and went to wade in the pond. I sat and watched her, absentmindedly shelling an egg.
